


The High Cost of Loving

by VeryMauve



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Demons, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Trans Male Character, Trans/Trans Relationship, femme trans boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 01:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16053062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryMauve/pseuds/VeryMauve





	1. Chapter 1

What brought me to the cemetery that night was a sudden feeling of claustrophobic panic. Most nights, I let the sleepless hours roll by from the comfort of my living room. Drinking alone is a bad sign, I know, but doing my problematic drinking in public has always seemed impolite to me. If I’m going to wreck my body, I thought I should at least have the decency to do it behind closed doors. But that night, at about half past three, the walls seemed suddenly very close. The air felt thick in my throat. I had a headache, as I usually did, but in addition there seemed to be an immense new pressure bearing down on me, as if iron weights were being piled on top of me, more and more of them, and if I didn’t escape now I might be crushed to pieces.

That I didn’t stay to be smothered is a good sign, really. At least I had enough self-preservation to bolt out of my front door, bottle in hand, and take to the streets. There, I could finally breathe freely. I walked for a while, turning off each road suddenly whenever I saw the slightest hint of another person. I didn’t want to be at home, but I couldn’t be around people. I needed to be alone, outside, where the air didn’t feel like cotton wool in my mouth. I’m not an imaginative person, or a resourceful one, but after a long stretch of aimless wandering I finally realised that I knew of one place that would probably suffice.

The cemetery gates were open, which didn’t strike me as odd at the time. I just strolled right in as if it was the middle of the afternoon. It must have been a good ten years since the last time I’d been inside the place, but I suppose all those hours spent hiding out at the back of the cemetery reading bad novels must have left a lasting impression. In need of solitude and safety, it seemed that my body knew instinctively where to go.

As I wandered along the overgrown paths, I was struck by how different the cemetery looked. I recognised it, but the tombstones looked taller somehow, and the whole place seemed larger, more sprawling. I felt as if I could easily have gotten lost if I didn’t concentrate, and of course given the state I was in, concentration was something I had in very short supply. Eventually I found myself next to a large flat slab of a tombstone, flanked by tall angel monuments. My legs were aching, and it looked comfortable enough, so I sat down and set about working my way through the second half of the bottle in my hand.

Where had it all gone wrong? I had so much hope when I was a teenager. My circumstances at the time were wretched, but I always felt that I’d find a way out. I was certain that my life would eventually improve, and it _did_ , except that having solved my old problems, I acquired a set of new ones. I didn’t regret any of my choices, but I felt bitter, because as a young man I’d been sure that by the time I hit thirty everything would be basically okay. I thought I’d have a stable place to live, fulfilling relationships, and probably even a decent job. Instead, at thirty-two, I had a tiny flat rented from a capricious landlord who kept threatening to evict me, an entry-level admin job that I would have been over-qualified for a decade ago, and a potpourri of disappointing ex-boyfriends and unsatisfying hookups.

I’d moved away to a big city in my twenties in the hopes of finding ‘my people’, and all I’d found was higher rents and more isolation. I’d moved back in the hopes of at least having more money to console myself with, and then found that I couldn’t get a job that paid even half of what I’d earned before I moved. Moving twice had done nothing for my love life, either; in a small town I only ever seemed to find chasers and boys who didn’t know what they wanted, and in a big city it was the exactly the same but with more people. The problem was obviously me. I didn’t think I could pin the blame on being trans, either. Even if I was cis, there was something about me that meant everything I tried to achieve would naturally flounder. In some innate way, I was just broken, defective, or cursed.

I closed my eyes and put my head in my hands. It was all a mess, all so hard, and I couldn’t see a way out. I’ve never been suicidal, but at that moment I began to feel that it would have been better if I’d never been born at all. And then, somewhere in the distance, I started to hear music. At first I assumed it must be some teenager blasting it out on their phone as they walked by, but the sound was too steady and faint for that. And besides, the music was like nothing I’d ever heard, delicate and soft, with a maddening melody that kept changing every time I thought I’d grasped it. The puzzle of it distracted me enough that for a moment I forgot my despair; I opened my eyes to see if I could spot the source, but the music immediately stopped. All I could hear was the rumble of far-off traffic.

That’s when I noticed a figure in white, standing a few yards away amongst the monuments, leaning against a tall stone cross. My eyes were bleary, so I couldn’t make out the details, but it almost looked as if one of the stone angels had been transmuted into living marble and stepped down from its plinth.

“Feel like some company?” the figure said, in a voice just a touch higher than mine, and started to walk towards me. As the distance between us closed, those blurred details began to coalesce. Short, white-blonde hair. A fine-boned face, the only colour in which came from arched golden eyebrows and pale pink lips. Tight white jeans and t-shirt, with a loose, sheer white shirt worn open over the top. An outfit like that should have been covered in dust and grass stains, in a place like this, but somehow it was immaculate.

“If the answer’s no,” the figure said, with a smile, “then feel free to say so. If you’d rather be left alone, say the word and I’ll disappear.”

I couldn’t speak, so I gestured at the spot beside me on the stone slab.

“So,” the figure said, sitting down next to me, “do you often meet strange boys in cemeteries in the middle of the night?” Then he glanced at my face and laughed. “Oh, don’t look so mortified, I’m only joking.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m just…”

“Having a hard time?” he said, stretching out on the slab.

“Yes.”

He smiled at me. “Boy trouble?”

I didn’t answer.

“It always is.” He shrugged, and put his hands behind his head, as if he was sunning himself on a beach. “Trust me, I’ve seen it all, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that if a man like you is in the depths of despair, there’s a boy behind it somewhere.”

I couldn’t help chuckling. “ _Cherchez le garçon_?”

“You’re laughing,” he said, “but I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Well, in a broad sense, yes.”

“See?” He nudged my thigh with one spotless white espadrille, and his silver anklet tinkled with the movement. “I’m always right about these things.”

“It’s not just that, though,” I said. “It’s everything.”

“Go on,” he said, fixing his golden eyes on mine, “tell me about it.”

And I did. Somehow, with those eyes watching me, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to answer him fully. But still, when I got to the point in the story where being trans became relevant, I stopped and tried to estimate the risk of disclosing. The boy was short and slight, probably a good three or four stones lighter than me, so he didn’t pose much of a threat. Socially it was a slim risk too, as I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. And besides, there was something about him that seemed trustworthy. Maybe I’m a fool for a pretty face, but looking at that rose-pink smile, I couldn’t believe he’d cause trouble for me.

“You’ve noticed this tattoo, right?” I said, pointing at the testosterone molecule design on my inner wrist. These days I cringe a little bit at it, but it felt meaningful when I was twenty-five, and I suppose even now it does come in handy sometimes as an ice-breaker.

“Yes,” the boy said, “and I know what it means.”

“Do you?”

“It means you’re a _really_ devoted bodybuilder,” he giggled, and then rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t scowl at me like that, Lucas, I’m only lightening the mood. It’s the T molecule, it means you’re a trans man.”

“Hang on,” I said, “how do you know my name?”

He smiled. “You told me, obviously.”

“Did I?”

The rosy smile didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“Oh, god, I must be more drunk than I realised.” I rubbed my face. “Sorry, but did you tell me your name as well? I’ve forgotten.”

“Nope,” he laughed. “And I’m not going to either, you’d mangle the pronunciation. But you can call me Bel.”

“Bel?”

“With one L.”

“It suits you,” I said, without thinking.

“Thank you,” Bel laughed, delicate and crisp, like windchimes. “I have a whole wardrobe of them, a name for every mood! But anyway, finish your story. Tell me everything.”

So I did. Everything that I would have told a therapist, and a lot more besides. I told him what hurt the most, and just as he’d insisted, it was the failed relationships that I kept circling back to. The cis men who saw me as an experiment; the trans men who used me as a surrogate therapist; the perpetually flaky twinks who never turned up for a date on time; the older guys who thought being a daddy meant 24/7 selfishness; the flirtations that went nowhere; the loneliness, the weariness, the feeling of being on a grim carousel that never stops. I bared all of my wounds to Bel.

“Well,” he said, stretching like a cat, “I’m not sure about the job and the landlord stuff, but the love life I can _definitely_ help with.”

I looked at him, with his bright eyes and his flawless skin, and scoffed. “Sorry, Bel, but do you not think you’re a bit young to be giving me advice?”

“Firstly, I’m older than I look,” he said, “and secondly, it wasn’t advice I was offering.” He shifted onto his side and propped his head on his hand. Somehow his feet had ended up in my lap, and as he spoke, the foot with the anklet moved slightly, stroking my thigh. “I was actually thinking that we could do a deal.”

“What kind of deal? If you’re looking for a sugar daddy, I can’t afford you.”

He laughed like glass shattering. “Do I _look_ like I need money, Lucas?”

“Well, no.” I shrugged. “But I’m not sure what else you could want from me.”

“You’ve got no imagination,” he tutted. “What I want from you is a favour.”

“What favour?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He sat up and tucked his feet underneath him. “But you’ll owe me, and eventually I’ll ask you to pay up.”

“That’s a bit vague.”

“Well, I’ll set some limits, then. I won’t ask you for anything illegal, anything that would bankrupt you, or anything physically harmful. How’s that?”

“Better,” I said, nodding. “What do I get in return?”

“Me.”

“You? In what sense?”

“In the biblical sense, Lucas,” he giggled, “and in any other sense you fancy.”

He was leaning on one arm, and the other hand was toying with the charms on his anklet. I couldn’t see what they were, but they glittered as he played with them. His nails shimmered too, like pearls. I thought about having those delicate hands on my skin, seeing his rose-pink lips curl in pleasure rather than amusement, hearing his crystalline voice breathe my name in rapture. It was so, so tempting to say yes. But what kind of man agrees to something as vague as that? And what kind of ‘favour’ could a boy like Bel possibly want from me? It sounded like the premise of a cheap noir film. The offer was too good to be true. And yet, if he stuck to the limits he promised, what was the worst that could happen? It’s not like he could embezzle my savings or abscond with my silverware in the middle of the night. I didn’t have anything worth taking. I didn’t really have anything except myself.

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my face. My eyes were aching, and my head was pounding. When I covered my eyes, the ache seemed to lift a little, as if I was shielding myself from a dazzling light. “Sorry, Bel, but I’m not sure about this.”

“Of course you aren’t, not yet,” he said, “but you will be.”

I laughed and opened my eyes, but he was gone. I was alone on the slab, with only my empty bottle for company.


	2. Chapter 2

I don’t remember how I got back home that night. It was lunchtime when I woke up, and to look at the state of the flat you’d have thought I was home all night. There was food missing from the fridge that I didn’t remember eating, the TV and laptop were switched off, and I’d apparently even attempted some half-hearted drunken cleaning, which I usually only do when it starts getting light in the morning, out of guilt for having stayed up all night again. The only weird thing was that I was in my pyjamas, which I don’t usually manage on a bad night. Still, it’s not the first time I’ve lost big chunks of the previous day, so I wasn’t too worried. It was just another sign that I needed to sort myself out.

And so was Bel. There was no way on earth, I thought, that a beautiful boy had appeared out of nowhere and thrown himself at me. I doubted a boy that good-looking even existed in this wretched town. I dismissed the whole experience as a pleasant but silly dream, nothing more than an expression of how desperate I was feeling. Besides, Bel had been right that the main problem was ‘boy trouble’; even if he was real, surely getting involved with yet another boy was only going to make things worse.

And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The image of him kept returning to me, over and over, every day. At work, I’d have long silent arguments with myself about him. _He was a figment of your imagination_ , I’d tell myself. Then a moment later, _He’s real and you need to find him_. I changed my mind ten times an hour. It should have been exhausting, but the thought of him gave me a strange sort of vigour. If I pictured his face in my mind, I felt as if I’d taken a long drink of water on a hot day. The memory of his voice felt electric. In the moments when I was convinced he was imaginary, I sometimes felt relieved, because a boy whose presence was that addictive would be nothing but trouble in real life.

As a figment of my imagination, though, Bel was an astonishingly positive addition to my life. The days after that first meeting in the cemetery were the most pleasant I’d had for a very long time. I drank a little less, dabbled in a few hobbies I hadn’t touched for months, and most wonderfully of all, I was able to sleep uninterrupted for a few hours each night. Well, I say uninterrupted, but there was an interruption of a sort. I dreamed of Bel every night without fail. We didn’t talk in those dreams, they were just brief glimpses of him. Little moments together, with him sitting or standing beside me, smiling at me, sometimes holding my hand. They were dreams, but they felt like memories. I woke up each morning smiling.

On the sixth day, I was about to settle in on the sofa with some drinks, when that same feeling of claustrophobia began to descend on me. It wasn’t as abrupt or intense this time, but just the memory of that crushing panic was enough to convince me to go out. I didn’t intend to hang around until the air started feeling like sand in my nostrils again, so I grabbed my jacket and set off walking into town. At that time of night, there was only one place I could stand to be, and that was the old rock pub near the train station. When I was a teenager it had been a standard rock pub, but then in the early noughties it changed hands and became a gay bar for a few years. Now it was back to being a rock pub, but the brief affair with queerness had left an impression, and these days the clientele was mostly young alternative types, with a smattering of queers who kept going even after the pub reverted to being nominally straight.

When I got there it was fairly quiet, as it usually was on a Thursday, and I had the whole back half of the place to myself. Maybe sitting in a room with a handful other people isn’t that much of a step up from drinking alone on my sofa, but to me it felt like progress. I was so pleased with myself that I after my second drink I went over and bought a few songs on the jukebox, the same ones I would have picked when I was eighteen. I suppose I was happy to be feeling a little echo of the same hope I had as a teenager. I was still smiling to myself when I got back to my booth.

“You look like you’ve had a good day,” Bel said, propping both hands under his chin. He was dressed in black this time, in tight leather trousers and a billowy velvet shirt. He fitted in perfectly, down to the smallest details; a little silver crucifix on a satin choker, glossy black nails, a touch of smudgy eyeliner.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just set my drink on the table and sat down beside him.

“Ugh, I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.” He wrinkled his nose at my glass of rum. “Tastes like someone’s dumped a tin of treacle into a vat of vinegar, if you ask me.”

“Bel, what are you doing here?”

“Relaxing,” he said, with a little shrug. “Enjoying your company. Why, do I need a reason to be here?”

“No,” I said, “I’m just…”

“Thinking too much,” he said. “Trying to find a reason for everything. Trust me, Lucas, it’s pointless.”

“What’s pointless?”

“Trying to analyse everything that happens to you. Sometimes there just isn’t a reason, or not a very deep one, anyway. Sometimes it’s all just random chance.” He sipped his drink, and then shook his head in exasperation. “Ugh, this conversation is getting depressing. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately?”

I did as he asked, but in the back of my mind I was having another one of those arguments with myself. Did he appear out of nowhere, or am I losing time again? Is he messing with me, or just trying to be cute? Am I so out of it that I’ve started blacking out after a couple of shots? Should I just ask him outright, or would that be too weird?

“Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my face, “I know this isn’t an official date, but you really should pay more attention to me. What’s the point in me being here, if you’re going to ignore me?”

I cringed, because I could remember saying the same thing to one of my exes. “I’m sorry, Bel.”

“See,” he said, pointing a black nail at me, “that’s the problem with living in your head so much. You miss what’s going on in front of your nose.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Now, how about another drink?”

I tried to give him some money to cover the cost of my drink, but he just laughed and walked off to the bar. When he came back he was holding two bottles of some overpriced cherry soft drink.

“We’re pacing ourselves tonight,” he said, as he set a bottle down in front of me. “You need to be relatively clear-headed if you’re going to make a sensible decision.”

“What decision?”

He sat down beside me, close enough that I could smell the perfume on his throat, heavy and dark like incense. “Silly,” he tutted, laying one slim white hand on my thigh. “I mean the little proposition I offered you, obviously…”

“Oh, that.” I flinched a little. I’d had a million conversations with myself about Bel over the last six days, but I hadn’t given any thought to what he’d proposed. I suppose I’d hoped that the decision would be easy to make when the moment came, but I had no such luck. I was as conflicted as I had been that night in the cemetery. It still didn’t make any sense to me, and it was still neither so ludicrous a suggestion that I could dismiss it outright, nor so unambiguously positive that I could accept without hesitation. I grimaced and said, “I’m sorry, Bel, but I’m still not sure.”

“That’s alright,” he laughed, “I had a feeling you might need three visits before you were convinced.”

I smiled, but I was starting to feel queasy. I don’t usually get nauseous when I’m drinking, but this time I really did feel like I might be sick, so I stood up and excused myself. I was cursing that stupid cherry soda all the way into the men’s toilets. That’s what I get for drinking something that must have been 80% sugar. Bel had a nerve mocking my rum. I had a good mind to buy him a shot and make him drink it as a condition of accepting his deal. I leaned against the cubicle wall and waited, but nothing happened. After a minute or so, the queasiness started to subside, and I went over to the sink to splash my face with water. My reflection in the mirror shocked me. I looked so full of life, notwithstanding a bit of residual pallor from the nausea. I looked better than I had in years.

On my way back from the toilets, I called by the bar to get myself a drink that wouldn’t make me feel like I had food poisoning, and while I was there I got another cherry abomination for Bel. I knew he wouldn’t want me to pay for his drinks, and that as he’d said, it wasn’t an official date, but it still felt rude to buy something for myself alone.

But of course, alone is what I was. When I got back to the booth, Bel was gone. I slammed both drinks on the table and sat down. I’d had enough. The first time he’d disappeared it had confused me, but this time I just found it annoying. I downed my last drink in one, and set off home, utterly resolute. The next time I saw Bel, I was going to give him a piece of my mind.


	3. Chapter 3

I stopped dreaming of Bel for a while, after that night in the pub. I was getting more sleep than ever, but now it was dreamless and heavy, and when I woke in the morning I didn’t feel refreshed, I just ached. The queasiness I’d felt after drinking that wretched soda kept coming back to me, too, generally just as I was settling down with some drinks. The only thing I could tolerate was plain water, anything else was too sweet or too rich for me. It was the same with food; on paper I was eating more healthily than I had done in a long time, but only because I couldn’t stomach my usual Pot Noodles and microwave chips. I was even going for little walks every evening, because it was the only thing that relieved the ache in my legs. Whatever sickness was afflicting me, it would have made my GP jump for joy.

This went on for a couple of weeks, and with each day that passed I grew angrier and angrier at Bel. Who did he think he was, appearing and disappearing every five minutes like a cheap stage magician? And all this nonsense about a deal, all the vagueness, why couldn’t he just be clear and direct? I was furious. I wanted to see him, _needed_ to see him, just to tell him exactly how annoying I found him. I couldn’t think of anything else but Bel, and even that irritated me. How could I be so fixated on a boy I’d only met twice? But as vexing as it was, I couldn’t shake the craving. I needed to see his face, even if only for a moment.

One night, in desperation, I went back to the cemetery. I had no reason to think that Bel would be there, but somehow I just _knew_ he’d appear. I went empty-handed and sober this time, but the cemetery still looked as sprawling and immense as it had that first night. The monuments still seemed to loom over me like cliff faces, and the paths still seemed to wind like snakes. It took me several minutes to find the slab I’d been sitting on when Bel made his first appearance, and even then I wasn’t entirely sure it was the right one. It had angels on either side, but they looked slightly different. More rigid in their postures, more pensive in their expressions, like they were subtly expressing disappointment.

“Alright, Bel,” I called out, standing on the path in front of the slab, “if you’re here, come out where I can see you.”

“There’s no need to shout,” his soft voice said, from behind me, “I’m right here.”

I turned around, and there he was, reclining on the slab as if it was a sun lounger. That night he was in red, the deepest, richest scarlet I’d ever seen. The shirt was sheer, and underneath it was nothing but his pale, bare skin. I could see the hollow of his stomach quiver slightly as he laughed.

“And for that matter,” he said, “you needn’t come all the way out here if you want to talk to me. I’m more than happy to do home visits.”

“Listen,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

“Ooh, forceful, I like it,” he giggled.

“I’m not joking, I’ve had enough.”

He pouted. “Of what? Me?”

“Yes!” I snapped, and then immediately shook my head. “No, not you as a whole, just the way you behave. I’m sick of you appearing and then vanishing without a word. It was cute at first, but now it’s winding me up and I’m not having it. Why can’t you say goodbye before you leave, like a normal person?”

He shrugged. “I’m _not_ a normal person, Lucas.”

“Well, you’ll damn well learn to act like one if I’m going to agree to this proposal of yours.”

“Oh,” he said, suddenly all smiles, “well, that would be different. If we’d made an agreement, then it’d be entirely up to you. I’ll give you written notice and five business days’ advance warning before each visit, if that’s what you want.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Yes,” he said, getting to his feet. “If I’m all yours, then I’ll act however you want me to. If you want me polite and attentive, then that’s what you’ll get. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be much of a deal from your perspective, would it?”

He had a point. “No more disappearing acts?”

“That’s right.”

I nodded slowly. “And if I want to see you, I won’t have to wait until you randomly pop up on a whim?”

“I’ll give you a number you can text me on. Just send me the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

“No surprises?”

“None at all,” he laughed, “unless you ask for them.”

You’d think it would be his beauty that convinced me, but of all things, it was the prospect of having a boy around who simply wouldn’t let me down. That’s it. That’s the glittering temptation Bel had to lay at my feet: the offer of a younger boyfriend who would actually treat me well. It’s pathetic, really, isn’t it? And yet it was more attractive than all the sex in the world.

“Alright.”

“ _Alright_?” Bel said, with a giggle. “You don’t go for pomp and ceremony, do you?”

My cheeks flushed. “Sorry, am I supposed to do this formally?”

“You can do it however you like, Lucas,” he said, winding his arms around my neck. I could smell rose and patchouli, and in the distance I could hear that music again. “Start as you mean to go on, I always say.”

I grabbed hold of him, one arm around his waist and one hand on the back of his neck, and pinned him there as we kissed, as if I thought he might slip out of my grasp at any moment. His lips were hot, almost too hot, and the taste of him was like rose syrup, so thick and sweet and cloying that it should have turned my stomach, but somehow I wanted more. I kissed him as if I meant to devour him, and when that wasn’t enough, I clamped my hands on his shoulders and pushed him down onto the grass, onto his knees. It felt strange to see him kneeling at my feet, as if I were debasing a prince, but of course that only stoked my fires. I fucked his mouth as if I intended to choke him, and I was only satisfied when tears streamed down his face, leaving perfect streaks of greyish kohl along those immaculate cheekbones.

When I was done, he wiped his mouth and said, “How long has it been since you last had a boy?”

“Oh,” I rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassed, and tried to calculate it. “God, probably a year, at least. Maybe more.”

“Well, then,” he said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you take me back to your place, and we can make up for lost time?”


	4. Chapter 4

The first three nights were just sex. Bel was right when he said I needed to make up for lost time. It took those three nights just to work through all the desire I’d bottled up. The first night, we took a taxi back to my flat, and I fucked him in as many different positions and arrangements as I could think of, until I was raw and aching. It was almost dawn by the time I sent him away. To be honest, I didn’t really want him to go, but I needed to sleep, and I had no chance of that with Bel lying beside me.

The next day I was at work, sleepwalking through the absolute bare minimum basic duties that I could get away with. I just wanted to get the day over with, get a bit more sleep, and then summon Bel again. It was like being a teenager again, being addicted to a particular videogame, and spending every hour away from the console just wishing time would go faster. All that mattered was getting through the day until the moment I could play again.

The second night was slightly less frantic. Without being asked, Bel arrived in the black outfit, the one he’d worn to the pub, which I’d been thinking about ever since I first saw it. It scratched exactly the right itch for me; he looked like the boys I used to fancy before I came out, so it was a chance to right the wrongs of the past, I suppose. The outfit was like a red rag to a bull, and I virtually leapt on the poor boy the moment he stepped through the door. This time I concentrated on fucking him in different places rather than positions. Every spot in which I’d ever daydreamed about Bel, I overwrote with a memory of actually having him. I wanted to paint the image of him all over the walls, the furniture, the floor. I wanted him everywhere.

Afterwards, I reluctantly sent him away again, and went through the same cycle of minimal sleep and minimal work the next day. Strangely, though, I didn’t look trashed. I was getting a couple of hours’ rest a night, and exerting myself far more each evening than I had done in months, and yet each morning I looked utterly fresh. Rejuvenated, even. I wondered whether Bel’s odd agelessness might be rubbing off on me, temporarily at least.

The third night was a change of pace. It was a hot night, and he arrived wearing virtually nothing—very short shorts, boots, and a little sheer crop top—and wearing so much makeup that I wondered how on earth he’d managed to get there in one piece.

“I’m very good at evading attention when I want to,” he laughed, “but I don’t often want to.”

That night he took pity on my flagging stamina and took the lead, so that I could just lie back and enjoy his ministrations. It was slower, more deliberate, and I had much more time to think about what I was doing. Lying there on my bed, watching Bel straddle me, watching the sweat running down his spine as he worked harder and harder to please me, it suddenly struck me how unlikely all this was. I started to worry that I’d really lost it, that I was imagining the whole affair. Maybe Bel had never been real at all. Maybe none of this was happening.

“Don’t think about it,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “Whatever you’re getting preoccupied by, don’t think about it. Think about _me_ , Lucas.” He rolled his hips, pushed down on me roughly, like he was trying to hurt himself. “Nothing else, just me.”

Whenever my attention wandered, even for a second, Bel brought it back to himself instantly, like he was calling a dog to heel. In the back of my mind I found it vaguely humiliating, but there was no helping it. Just as he was bound to appear whenever I called for him, my thoughts were bound to him on an extremely short leash. I could never stray very far.

On the fourth night, I didn’t want sex. I just wanted to see his face. When I texted him, I told him he didn’t need to dress up, but he still arrived done up to the nines, in a shimmery silver shirt and tight violet jeans. I began to wonder where he was getting all of these elaborate outfits from, but I realised it wasn’t a train of thought Bel would be happy to know I was entertaining, so I filed that question away with the rest of them. We went out that night, to the cinema and then out for a meal, which meant I’d spent more in one evening than I normally would in a month. I checked my bank balance afterwards, while I was waiting for Bel to finish his drink, and I suppose he must have guessed what the problem was from my expression.

“Money worries,” he said, “are _such_ a distraction. Sometimes I wish the stuff didn’t exist at all.” He sighed, and then gave me a beaming smile. “But don’t dwell on it, Lucas. I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out.”

And it did. At work the following day, my manager, who had shown zero interest in me at all for the preceding two years, came over to recommend that I apply for a secondment that had just been advertised. The work and the money were both much better than what I was currently on, so of course I assumed I wouldn’t get it, but I applied anyway. The following week I had a very informal cursory ‘interview’ that would have given the HR department a heart attack, and by close of play that day they’d offered me the job. None of it seemed real—but then, Bel didn’t seem real either, if I stopped and thought about him seriously, so I decided that the best approach was to not think about any of this in any great depth. I just bobbed along on the top of the wave carrying me, and tried to enjoy the ride.

I was still seeing Bel every night when I began my new secondment, but I’d started sending him home earlier in an attempt to pace myself. I still couldn’t get enough of him, of course, but I also knew that I could have him again whenever I wanted. The urgency had faded, and in its place I had a wonderful feeling of security. He wasn’t a wraith who might dissipate like morning mist anymore. He was a genie in a bottle, and I could conjure him up whenever I felt like it. I was starting to develop a sense of ownership over him, and I suppose that was my first real mistake.

“How old are you, really?” I asked him, one night, as we stretched out on my bed together.

“Old enough not to feel like answering that question,” he said, with a giggle.

It bothered me, though. There was a whole class of questions that Bel simply would not answer—where he lived, what he did when we were apart, whether he was seeing anyone else—and each evasion opened up a little crack in the foundations of our arrangement. Most of the time I let the subject drop as soon as Bel expressed any displeasure, but that night I felt particularly confident, so I pushed my luck.

“You never answer any of my questions straightforwardly,” I said, sitting up. “Why?”

He turned over onto his back and fixed me with those light gold eyes. “A better question is, why should I have to?”

“Aren’t you supposed to do whatever I want, as part of our agreement?”

A slow smile spread over his lips. “To a certain extent, yes. But there are limits, Lucas.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning these limits before I agreed.”

“Well, there’s quite a lot you don’t remember, isn’t there?” He laughed, but his smile was absolutely serious. “And besides, don’t you think you’re being a little ungrateful?”

I bristled at that. “What do you mean, ungrateful?”

“Hasn’t your life undergone a sea-change over the last month? Do you really think any of that is down to you, Lucas?”

He wasn’t wrong. Things really had improved; since I started the new job, I’d been slowly and steadily accumulating a series of quite unlikely strokes of luck. Nothing sensational, really: a tax refund, a raffle win at an office party, finding money in the street, and most unexpectedly of all, the landlord finally sending a workman round to fix the central heating I’d been complaining about since last winter. They were all small-to-medium-sized windfalls, but they felt like lottery wins compared to how my life had generally preceded before I met Bel. _Before I met Bel_. I frowned at the thought. Was he really responsible for everything good, everything pleasant that befell me?

“You aren’t seriously thinking that you achieved all of this yourself, are you?” He laughed again, like glass being crushed underfoot. “I’ve met some deluded souls in my time, Lucas, but you really do excel at kidding yourself.”

 “What are you saying?” My head was spinning, and I could feel that old nausea rising in my throat again.

“I’m saying that you should think carefully before you decide you’ve got the right to interrogate me.” He crossed his legs, and smirked as he saw me glance down at the smooth curve of his thigh. “Unless you really do want to find out what your life would be like without me.”

“No,” I said, immediately, instinctively. “No, that’s not what I want at all. I’m sorry, Bel.”

He smiled. “Remember that, next time.”

“I will.” I nodded, letting the doubts slip away. “I promise.”

“Now,” he purred, stretching out his arms towards me, “why don’t you forget all of that nonsense and come over here?”

I lay down beside him, emptied my mind of everything else, and surrendered to his embrace.

Being with Bel was like walking a tightrope that I only became aware of when I happened to stumble. The majority of the time, we were happy together. Well, I was happy with Bel. What he thought, what he felt, I was never really sure of, and asking explicitly was futile since he batted away all direct questions. His interior life, his past, his future, they were all off-limits. All I had custody of was the present moment, the skin under my hands, the lips brushing mine. It wasn’t a bad deal at all. I should have been grateful.

But in my private moments, in the evenings I spent away from Bel, I was haunted by all of those unknowns. I lay in bed alone some nights, wondering where he was. I didn’t want to bring him to me, I didn’t even particularly want to see his face. I just wanted to know what he was doing. I wanted my possession of him to expand into all the blanks and voids, to spread across the whole of Bel’s existence. I wanted to hold him, to contain him somehow, which was like trying to bottle the wind.

In some ways those nights without Bel were a relief. He was a heady experience. In his presence, my senses and my thoughts were full to bursting, so that the absence of him sometimes felt like the sudden ceasing of all noise. Sometimes I enjoyed the chance to just sit and think, to clear my mind. Sometimes I began to wonder whether agreeing to Bel’s terms had been a mistake.

It was about ten or eleven weeks after we’d first met, when I moved into my new flat. This one was twice the size of the first, but far from twice the price. The new landlord seemed reasonable, the location was extremely convenient, and the place was already decorated in line with my tastes. I should have been grateful, circumspect, humble. Instead I was jubilant, proud, and in the mood for a fight.

“You won’t feel like answering this question,” I said to Bel, over a bottle of wine, “but I’m going to ask it anyway.”

“Go on.” His smile was as smooth and cold as the glass under his fingertips.

“You’ve made deals like this before, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, lots.”

“Did anyone ever try to get out of paying up?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at me calmly, with eyes like pools of liquid gold.

“That’s a yes, then.” I laughed. “Okay, let me try another question. What happens, hypothetically, if someone tries to cheat you?”

Bel shook his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight.”

“I’m just curious,” I said, “because it must have happened at least once. So, what do you do? I mean, it’s not like you can send the bailiffs round, is it?”

“Lucas.” My name was a command, a hand raised, a locked door.

“Don’t you think it’s fair,” I said, ploughing straight through the red light, “that I should know what the penalty is for breach of contract?”

Bel stood up, and somehow I felt that I was being towered over despite the slightness of his five foot six frame. The air was freezing, prickling at my skin, like icy hands seizing me, trying to hold me back. Every fibre of my body was screaming at me to stop, to think about what I was doing, but I didn’t listen.

“Oh, are you going to do one of your vanishing acts? It’s been a while since you’ve treated me to one of those.”

“The problem with you people,” he said, “is that you’re constitutionally unsuited to happiness. Wherever you find it, you destroy it, even if that’s in your own life.”

I laughed, more out of bewilderment than amusement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t reply. He simply turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, out of my flat, out into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Tristan appeared at the ideal time to distract me from the situation with Bel. He was just as unlikely, in his own way. A new face in my grid one day, a trans boy with too much style and flair to be local. Ghostly pale with foundation, smoky eyes, hair dyed black with bottle-green streaks. He must be travelling, I thought. On a train, passing through to somewhere more civilised. But he was there in my grid the next day, and the day after that, by which point I’d decided that even if he was only here briefly—for work, I assumed, since no-one would ever come here on holiday—it was still worth contacting him. Even a few days would be good enough for me.

We did the usual hesitant dance. I tapped him, he tapped me, I left it a day and then messaged him. _Bel won’t like this_ , I thought, as I pressed Send.

“Are you based around here?” Tristan asked, and when I said yes, he replied immediately, “Thank god! I was beginning to think I was the only gay ftm in town!”

We chatted for a while, and from the few details he’d given me I was able to find him online quite easily. He told me he’d moved down here after finishing an art degree in Edinburgh, and sure enough, there he was on an old LGBT society Instagram photo, standing behind a rainbow-draped desk at a Freshers Fair. That led me to his own Instagram, where he had years of photos, from his current profile picture all the way back to awkward sixth-form selfies. I only skimmed them, but I saw enough to be confident that he was exactly who he appeared to be.  He was perfect. More than perfect, _real_. Where Bel gave me mysteries, Tristan gave me substance. He had a corporeality that I suddenly realised had been missing from my life for quite some time. It was like tasting real coffee after months of decaf.

We met that night, in the old rock pub, which I was slightly ashamed of. It didn’t seem good enough for him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, grinning. “It just makes me look super cool by comparison, right?” The grin faltered a little, and I could see his cheeks flushing under the foundation. “Sorry, I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Don’t apologise,” I said, “it was cute.”

He smiled, but that flustered air persisted all night. In the frozen moment of a photo, he looked immaculate and perhaps even slightly intimidating. In motion, he was endearingly gauche. It was a strange mixture. Perfectly manicured hands that fumbled and dropped coins and spilled drinks like a nervous teenager. Impossible cheekbones, with an almost constant curtain of blushes beneath them, ranging from a baseline of powder pink to a deep raspberry which emerged when he made a joke he thought might be too lewd. I wondered if he’d blush like that while we were having sex. Perhaps he’d be too nervous to be intimate in the first place.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, after the second round of drinks. “How did you end up living here, of all places?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” I said. “It’s a boring story, and anyway, you’re a much more interesting topic. You mentioned painting on your profile, what kind of stuff do you do?”

“Oils,” he said, “which is the most stupid type of painting to get into. It’s expensive, it takes up loads of room, and it _stinks_. Honestly, that’s the reason I like perfume so much, it covers up the smell of paint and turps. Seriously, if you ever want to take up painting, do quaint little watercolours instead, you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble.”

I laughed. “Oh, I don’t mind trouble, I’m used to it.”

We met up again the following day, for a coffee and a walk in the cemetery. I knew it was tempting fate to go there with Tristan, to walk right past the slab where Bel and I had sat that first night, but I suggested it anyway. I suppose I had something to prove. And anyway, the cemetery didn’t belong to Bel. I’d gone there countless times as a teenager, long before I met him. Who was he to claim the place as his territory?

“This is romantic,” Tristan said, leaning against a big stone cross. “Makes you think about how transient everything is.”

I put my hand on his back, lightly, just resting it on the black velvet of his jacket. “Carpe diem, you mean?”

“Exactly.” He smiled up at me. “Shall we take a picture together? To capture the moment, transient as it is.”

We arranged ourselves in front of the monument, with me standing behind Tristan, and the cross looming behind me. He took a perfect shot first time, and beamed at me as he held his phone out. “We look great together, don’t we?”

My face was severe, shadowed by the late afternoon light, and my posture was straight and unyielding, like the tombstones around us. He was all eyes and hair and cheekbones, pale smiling lips, head tilted to the side coquettishly. He looked happy, playful; I looked like I was waiting to be hung.

“You look beautiful,” I said, “and even more so in real life.”

Pale cheeks flushing pink, he leaned in to kiss me. I took him home, and found that no, he wasn’t too nervous to be intimate, but yes, he certainly did blush the whole way through.


	6. Chapter 6

I hadn’t contacted Bel for months. It wasn’t that I’d lost interest in him. I simply didn’t have time for both Bel and Tristan, and if I was forced to choose between them, then of course I would choose Tristan’s warmth over Bel’s capriciousness. I didn’t feel guilty. For a start, Bel was the one who’d stormed out. If he wanted to see me, then he’d have initiate it, and in the meantime, I was too busy to waste time worrying about him.

Tristan and I had settled into a routine that kept us in contact almost every day. He worked four days a week, one of which was always a Saturday, and two of which were usually 2pm-8pm shifts, so our dates had to be slotted in around his schedule. We had three or four evenings together per week, usually the ones immediately before his late shifts; he said that seeing me put him in a good mood that lasted all the way through the next day’s work. Every Sunday we took a day-trip to somewhere green and secluded, where Tristan could look at landscapes that inspired his paintings. He never seemed to paint what he saw directly, but if you’d been with him on a particular trip you could see echoes of the scenery in his work over the next few weeks. It pleased me very much to have that insight, to be able to see the connections between Tristan’s life and his creative work. It felt like an immense privilege.

In-between our dates we kept up a constant conversation online, and over the first couple of months it began to seem like I was his first thought whenever anything happened. Whenever he saw or heard something amusing, it seemed to be me he told first. Whenever he was caught in a dilemma, it was my advice he sought. It was wonderful. I couldn’t be with him all the time, but he was in my thoughts, and I was evidently in his. Our lives were slowly but surely growing intertwined.

When Tristan finally invited me back to his flat, I was overjoyed. In some ways he was very private, and he was enough of an introvert to need a safe place to recharge away from people altogether. Letting me set foot in his sanctuary was a gesture of trust that touched me deeply. The flat itself was very _him_. Tiny, really, but every surface was covered with prints and throws and ornaments which he changed frequently, so that the whole place became a projection of whatever was currently in his mind. The first time he brought me back there, he was going through an Art Nouveau phase, and his walls were hung with prints of his friends’ illustrations, which he explained were mostly pieces he’d commissioned from them himself. Long, slender paintings of sylphlike boys hung next to huge, swirling, wallpaper-ish pieces. The palettes were muted and autumnal, and when I first entered the flat it felt almost like time had skipped forward to sunset, as if Tristan had managed to bring the gold early-evening light into the middle of the afternoon.

“Is this you?” I said, pointing at a picture of a young man kneeling by a woodland pool.

“Me as Narcissus.” He smiled sheepishly.

“It’s lovely,” I said, “and so is the real thing.”

It really was a very good painting. Whoever the artist was, they’d captured the bashfulness of Tristan’s expression perfectly, and the fabric draped around his hips looked so real that it might blow away if the wind caught it. The trees surrounding Tristan were very well-done, too, and I leaned in to look at the detail of the branches. It was only when I looked closer that I noticed the figure in the background, standing beyond the trees. From a distance it could have been a little splash of light in a sun-dappled wood. Up close it couldn’t be anything other than the slim figure of a person all in white, with a tiny brushstroke of pale gold hair.

“Who’s this?” I asked, without really wanting to hear the answer.

“No idea,” Tristan said. “I did ask whether it was supposed to be Echo, but my friend said it’s not supposed to be anyone in particular. Just a random whim, apparently.” He laughed. “No use trying to get sense out of these artistic types, eh?”

I laughed along with him, and tried to put the little pale figure out of my mind. Thinking about it for more than a moment would be pure paranoia, and I didn’t intend to let suspicion ruin what I had with Tristan.

“Come here,” I said, pulling him close.

“Gladly.” He nestled into my embrace happily, and rested his head against my chest. “Are you okay, though?”

“Of course,” I said. “Just thinking about how precious my time with you is.” I held him closer as I spoke. “And I don’t want anything to spoil it.”

 

***

 

Tristan was always very secretive about his works-in-progress. Once the piece was finished, he’d send me a photo of it immediately and almost beg me to come and view it in person, but up until the moment he decided it was complete, he wouldn’t show anyone, not even me. _I love you_ , he’d said, _but I don’t want anyone else’s influence steering my work_. That was the first time either of had said the word ‘love’. I cared about him very much, I adored him, I didn’t know what I’d do without him, and yet my affections hadn’t quite solidified into love until I heard those words from him. It unlocked my feelings like a magic spell, and I remember seizing him so passionately that he laughed and wriggled away. When I declared that I loved him too, he just smiled and said, _Good, but you’re still not seeing the painting til it’s done_.

The secrecy had never bothered me before, but having seen that small pale figure in the background of the Narcissus painting, I began to wonder. Perhaps Tristan’s friend knew Bel. Perhaps the friend had made the same kind of deal as I had. Perhaps Tristan himself knew Bel. I wasn’t extroverted enough to have friends, but if I was, then they would certainly have been introduced to Bel at some point. It wasn’t impossible that the two of them could already have met.

I started paying more attention to the remarks Tristan made about his current work-in-progress. He never mentioned any details, but he would make conversation about how the piece was going, about practical issues getting in the way of it, about particular colours he was especially enjoying using. There wasn’t a shred of information about _what_ he was painting, but I scrutinised his comments for anything that even vaguely resembled a clue.

“That new green-gold is fantastic,” he said, “in the dark sections the shadows look so deep you feel like you could almost stick your hand and wiggle it around.”

“Sounds beautiful,” I replied, but the train of suspicion was already rattling off down the tracks. Gold shadows; shadows on golden jewellery, perhaps. A gold anklet, tinkling with charms. A gold choker wrapped around a thin, pale throat.

“It is,” he carried on, squeezing my hand. “And they were having a sale, so I got a backup of my favourite Naples Yellow.”

“Oh good,” I said, and then foolishly added, “It’s sounding like a very golden piece so far, am I going to need sunglasses for the finished article?”

“Hardly,” he laughed. “You might need a lie-down in a darkened room, though, it’s a bit racier than my usual stuff.”

I laughed too, but in my mind I could already see the subject of the painting. What else could it be but Bel, beautiful golden Bel, pale and shimmering, smiling tauntingly from the canvas. The smile of a victor.

“Are you alright, Lucas?” He squeezed my hand again. “You look worried.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a bit tired.”


	7. Chapter 7

The breaking point was a garnet earring. A tiny thing, which I might not have even noticed, if I wasn’t already in a state of permanent suspicion. It was on the carpet, just peeking out from underneath the sofa, when I spotted it glinting in the afternoon sunlight. Tristan was in the bathroom at the time, but I could hear him washing his hands, about to return to the living room. I could have picked the earring up and asked him about it; instead I put it in my pocket, and went to stand by the window.

“Ready to go?” he said, smiling.

“Absolutely.” My hand was in my pocket, closed around the earring, letting the point of its closure jab into my palm.

Later that night, when I’d said goodbye to Tristan and gone back to my own flat, I sat and studied the earring. I wanted to be sure of what it meant, before I took any action. It was an understated little thing, just a small garnet stone in a silver setting. Nothing like the jewellery Tristan favoured. He would never have worn a red stone because it would have clashed with the green sections in his hair, and besides, when it came to accessories he stuck strictly to a colour scheme of silver and black. It didn’t belong to Tristan, and in my mind that only left one possible owner.

I wasn’t a fool. I didn’t expect monogamy from Tristan, any more than he expected it from me. My unease wasn’t about jealousy or possessiveness. It was fear. I wanted to keep Bel away from the boy, to ward off the confusion and complications Bel brought with him. I wanted to keep Tristan safe. But it was too late for that, evidently. Most likely, they had already met, perhaps as friends, perhaps as lovers. I was certain now that Bel must be the subject of the painting, the face on the canvas which was always turned away from view, the face I was never allowed to see. I was sure that if I could steal a moment alone with the painting, it was Bel’s mocking eyes I would see staring back at me.

It was easy enough to arrange. A flamboyant young man like Tristan spends a lot of time in front of the bathroom mirror, primping and preening. All I had to do was to wait for one of those moments, for him to leave me alone in the living room for a few minutes, and I would have adequate time to turn the canvas around and verify my suspicions. I just had to be patient.

The following Friday night, we went out to the pub as usual, and then back to Tristan’s flat. Quite often we spent the evening at my place, but sometimes if Tristan was tired or ill we finished the date at his flat instead, so he didn’t have to travel home afterwards. He’d been staying up late working on the painting—another clue, I thought, since that single-minded obsessiveness could only have been caused by Bel—and so he was more than happy to go straight back to his flat that night.

“You’re always so kind to me,” he said, leaning his head against my shoulder as we made our way through the front door. He’d drunk a little too much, and while he was still in control of himself, he was tipsy enough to be lethargic and a bit unsteady on his feet. “I think you’re the nicest man I’ve ever gone out with, you know…”

“It’s all a show,” I laughed. “I’m a villain really, I’m just putting on an act to get you into bed.”

“Pfft.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m too tired for any of that tonight.”

_Because of him_ , I thought. Out loud I said, “Well, in that case, my nefarious plans are limited to relaxing on the sofa and watching a film.”

“Alright,” he said, “but let me go and get freshened up first.”

I watched him head off to the bathroom, steadier on his feet now but still meandering slightly, knocking clumsily against the doorframe as he passed. I watched until I heard the bathroom door close and lock, and then I turned to the canvas in the corner of the room. Normally Tristan kept his current pieces propped against the wall, but he’d left this one on the easel, which was turned to face the corner of the room. There was nowhere I could stand that would give me the view I needed. I had to move the easel, quickly and quietly, if I wanted to know the truth.

I stood beside the wooden frame, and even before I’d touched the thing, I could feel a knot of fear growing in my stomach. To reach out and take hold of the easel felt as intimidating a prospect as if Bel himself had been standing in front of me. My body knew, in each muscle and fibre, that this was something I simply should not do, and yet I reached out my hands and grabbed the frame. It was heavier than I expected, but not too heavy to move quietly, as long as I was careful. Slowly, gently, I began to turn the easel around, cringing as the wooden legs creaked, flinching at the dull sound of the feet dragging against the carpet.

“What are you doing?” From nowhere, Tristan’s voice rang in my ears. “Lucas, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

My hands fell to my sides. I turned around, but didn’t answer.

“Well?” He didn’t look drunk at all now. His arms were folded, and his eyes were dark with anger.

“You can’t blame me,” I said, suddenly furious. “If you won’t tell me, then how else am I supposed to be sure?”

“Sure?” He looked confused, as if he didn’t know exactly what I was talking about. “Sure of what, exactly?”

The attempt at deception disgusted me. “That you’re seeing _him_.”

“Who?”

For some reason I didn’t want to say Bel’s name. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Lucas, you’re being ridiculous. Firstly, I’m not seeing anyone else,” he said, “and secondly, so what if I was? We’re not exclusive, you don’t own me, and frankly if you think you can forbid me from seeing other men—”

“It’s not ‘other men’,” I said, cutting him off. “It’s just _him_. The one you’re painting. The one you won’t tell me about.”

“Jesus Christ, Lucas,” Tristan was almost shouting now, red-faced and indignant. “Stop and listen to yourself! What you’re accusing me of, you can’t really think it makes sense, can you? Just stop and think for a—”

“Save your breath,” I laughed bitterly. “I know you’re seeing him, there’s nothing you can say that will convince me otherwise.”

Tristan didn’t respond. He just stared at me, moist-eyed, hands shaking. “Alright,” he said, eventually. “Look at the painting.”

“What?”

“Turn the easel around,” he said, “and look at the painting.”

This was it. The moment he was finally going to be honest with me. It should have felt like victory, or at least relief. Instead I felt strangely numb as I took hold of the easel again. I dragged it around, waiting for the satisfaction of being vindicated to course through my veins, but satisfaction never came. I looked at the painting, and what I saw with filled me with horror.

“But…” I shook my head.

“Now get out.” Tristan’s voice was calm, resigned, disappointed. “If you don’t trust me, we can’t stay together.”

“No, no,” I stammered, “no, Tristan, I _do_ trust you, it’s just that, just that _he—_ ”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Tristan looked at me with eyes full of sadness, but there was no hesitation in his words. “We’re finished. Get out and don’t come back.”

 

***

 

The moon is a thin silver curve in the sky. Clouds slide past it, heavy and grey. My attention keeps wandering, and when it returns the clouds are different; I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. My fingers are curled around the glass of a bottle’s neck, which feels as cold and hard as the stone beneath my head. I should get up. I should leave. I keep lying here, watching the clouds, drifting away, not thinking.

Footsteps in the distance. Closer, suddenly. The gravel crunches softly, as if it’s barely been disturbed. Footsteps as light as the wind. I roll over onto my side, and on the path beside me I can see pale feet in spotless white espadrilles, standing motionless, one pointing towards me, the other angled casually away. Slim legs in pristine white jeans, crouching down now, bringing his whole body into view.

“Why,” he says lightly, “do you people never learn?”

“Bel…” I try to focus on his face, but my eyes won’t cooperate. All I can make out is the pink curve of his smile, a rosy moon in his white face.

“Oh, don’t try to argue,” he laughs. “I’m not here to gloat, anyway. I only came to tell you the answer to your question.”

“My question…?” The words feel like gravel on my lips. My throat is raw and dry. Have I been crying, or shouting?

“Yes.” Bel reaches out, as if he might touch me, as if he might hold my hand, but he only brushes something off my shoulder. Dust, perhaps, or a spider. How long have I been lying here?

“You asked me once,” he says, “what happens if someone tries to cheat me.”

I remember now. Arrogance. I thought I was being clever. I thought I could do anything.

“And the answer,” he says, rising to his feet, “is that one way or another, I always collect.”


End file.
